If I type my name into Athlinks, the search yields 43 results — all the 5k’s, dips and dashes, duathlons, aquabikes, triathlons and marathons I’ve completed. If I type in Paul Ryan, Paul Davis Ryan, or Paul D. Ryan, I get four men, none of whom appears to have the correct age or appearance. [1]

So maybe 1990 was too early for records in the internet cloud, I think. I type in the name of an older friend who ran in those years — and get about 20 results, dating back to 1990.

My point is, it’s hard to lie these days about your races. Anyone who can spell my name can see that my best marathon time is 5:26:28, in the 2011 Colfax Kaiser-Permanente Marathon. The New Yorker carried a story a few weeks ago about a dentist who apparently invented an entire fake race to showcase and justify his achievements, but successfully prevaricating about one’s athletic prowess in real events is another challenge.

A few years ago, I hop-scotched a tall fellow, race-walking along, through a few miles in the Seattle Rock and Roll Marathon. His name was Chester; I knew this because people called his name along nearly every mile of the route. He wore the yellow tank top characteristic of the Marathon Maniacs, members of a club whose requirements include, at a minimum, completing two 26.2 mile races in 2 weeks. I don’t remember Chester’s count — it was in the tens — but he recalled the specifics of each one we talked about.

I’m slow, and more rounded than most marathon runners. But though I’ve finished five, the last few miles of each race burned themselves in my brain, and most of all in the soles of my feet. I know that my accomplishments pale compared to, say, the folks that every year endure some 30 hours at high altitude, in the Leadville 100; but whatever the level at which you perform, marathons aren’t throwaway experiences.

The other night I got ready for another event. An early spring injury eliminated training for a few months, so I signed up for just half the distance, in the American Discovery Trail Marathon. But I was still nervous, and I laid out my race outfit with special care, trying hard not to forget details like sunscreen. I hoped to finish with an un-embarrassing time, and needed a nap after I got home.

You say, “But Paul Ryan was a young, fit man when he finished Grandma’s marathon. He’s busy, with lots of things to consider and many people to manage. And now, well, it’s ancient history. Give him a break!”

But Mr. Ryan’s disregard for the truth is more than just a symptom of poor sportsmanship.

I wonder, what other lies does he tell himself? That the economy will magically fix itself, if rich people just get enough money? That it doesn’t matter how medical costs rise every year, retired people will somehow find the funds to pay their medical bills from inadequate vouchers? That the heat and drought we experienced this summer cannot be symptomatic of the Earth’s inability to absorb further onslaught of greenhouse gasses?

When I tell my middle-school students about my long-distance running events, some of them ask, “Why don’t you just get in a cab and ride to the finish?” I don’t tell them that there are mid-course photos, and timing chip records, to verify your results. I tell them that the worst kinds of lies are ones you tell yourself.

Eva Syrovy is a science teacher in Colorado Springs. She was a 2010 Colorado Voices columnist.